THE OTHER SIDE

A black fly lay there dead,
an upside down untouchable,
on my cold chipped,
white enamel window sill.

Undertaker, I picked you up
with a sheet of clean white paper,
with the plan of burying you
in the plastic bag
in my waste paper basket.

Suddenly, you moved.
You gave life one last dance,
one last chance, I guess,
to get beyond the window,
to get to where you wanted
to go in the first place.
Don’t we all? Don’t we all?

© Andy Costello, Reflections, 2009